My Iron Lung
by Amaryllis Estyre
Summary: A good deal of angst, crack, and fun. There'll probably be spoilers for all the eps up to Six Months Ago... after that, I'm just making things up. Rated for wiggle room and uber language. SylarOC. Yeah, you read that right. Other pairings tbd.
1. You Get Burned

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I wrote this story in my head sometime between ep. 9 and ep. 10, so I had, at the time, absolutely no idea what Sylar was like, what his motives were for doing the things he did, or whatever happened to Molly Walker. I had my own ideas, of course, which is where this story came from. Surprisingly, they were pretty accurate. But that's beside the point._

_Aside from assumptions about Sylar and his motives, pretty much everything I am going to guess about the show will be wrong. But I like my version of the story anyway, so I'm going to write it down. You will find little, if any, fact in it; I fully intend to make up powers and characters and all sorts of exciting things._

_So enjoy. Review if you'd like; I'm tickled pink when I hear how people like my story. Just don't expect me to reply. I'm shy like that. Rest assured that I appreciate both compliments and constructive criticism._

_**DISCLAIMER:** I own only Rynne and whatever I make up. Heroes does not, sadly, belong to me, or Peter would be Sylar and Claire would be one of a set of triplets. But that's another story._

_**RATING:** Rating is to give myself wiggle room in the future. Currently, all that exists is quite a lot of language, some suggested eew, and all manner of insanity. Expect much more later on. oO;_

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**My Iron Lung**

**Chapter One**  
_…You Get Burned_

The girl couldn't have been older than sixteen. She was wearing clothing that couldn't have been meant for anyone younger than twenty-one.

She was walking with a purposeful air, her hazel brown eyes all afire. When the light from the streetlamps hit them, they looked as though the only thing keeping them from exploding into flame was the ring of deep black painted around their edges, keeping them in check.

Her round, pale face was framed with chin-length purple hair that had artful chunks of black in it. She had made that particular addition to her style on a street corner north of the Avarice on a cold December morning with a bunch of guys she'd never met before and never seen again. She remembered that quite clearly. Maybe not the rest of what happened, but the hair part, sure. That had been fun.

Rynne Parish stopped at the street sign and leaned on the pole, waiting for the light to turn red so she could cross the street. She kept her eye on the shadows. She had entered the trashy part of town where she spent most of her working hours, and she knew enough to look out for herself.

The light turned red. Rynne crossed the street.

Once she was back on the sidewalk, she moved with double the speed, her thin stiletto heels clicking on the pavement. She had a funny feeling that there was someone unpleasant nearby. Shit. She usually worked earlier hours to _avoid_ this.

She had been right. Something moved in the dark. Somebody whispered something to somebody else, and Rynne, out of the corner of her eye, saw three shapes moving toward her. Damn it, she didn't have _time_ for this. The men were getting too close for comfort, smirking to themselves, Rynne was sure. She shrugged her shoulders and slowed down a bit, letting them get within range...

Just as they were about to pounce her, they went up in flames. They screamed once each, then fell to the ground, ashes.

Rynne went on her way.

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_Do you love your guns? Yeah. God? Yeah. The government? Fuck yeah._

Rynne hated this song. She always had. You know, anarchy, violence, whatever, that was all cool. But this had to be the most obnoxious chorus ever invented. Good for live shows and nothing else. Torture, maybe.

Even from behind the curtain, she could tell the crowd was getting really worked up tonight. And, honestly, Rynne couldn't blame them. The girls were hot. This was their favorite routine – God only knew why – and they were probably into it. She couldn't tell, and didn't actually care all that much. She wasn't a dancer. She ran special effects.

She sang along as she climbed the stairs to the balcony. She didn't really want to, but she couldn't help it. This was one of those songs that got inside your head and wouldn't leave until you gave in and enjoyed it.

Her heels clicked along to the beat as she went over the routine in her head. The girls were swinging about, and, if they valued their lives at all, they would have opened their wings by now. Haha. Opened their wings. Get your mind out of the gutter, Parish, you have a job to do.

She got to the balcony just in time. _I got love songs in my head, killing us away._ She leaned over the steel bar that kept her from tumbling into a rather rowdy crowd of S&M types, and concentrated as hard as she possibly could on the three very flammable rings that circled the stage. She could feel her fingertips heating up. Any second now, right on cue….

Foom. Up went the flames. The girls struck poses that would have given their mothers heart attacks, and the wire wings sewn to the backs of their outfits went foom as well. The crowd went mad. They always did.

Every word that Manson sang (or gagged, or screeched, or whatever the things he was doing were called), the flames flared even higher, until they were crackling enough to set the whole place aflame. They didn't, of course. Rynne was good at what she did.

The song ended rather quickly, in Rynne's mind, and the flames went out. She sighed, sweating a bit around the edges, but not nearly as much as she had been the first time she stood up here, in the shadows, the main attraction. It was all routine, now. If what she did could possibly be called routine.

She had learned her limits long ago, as had the pretty girls on the stage. The show was over; Rynne was the finale. The three walked quickly off the stage to all manner of noises from the spectators, and Rynne crept down the stairs again, her mouth dry, her eyeliner running a bit. She grabbed a bottle of water she'd left on the table for this exact purpose, drained it, and stepped out into the club.

Almost immediately she was handed a bottle of something that was, judging by the smell, most certainly not water; she downed it and threw the empty glass back in the direction it had come from. It was potent; everything went fuzzy for a few seconds before Rynne finally regained her bearings and noticed that there was someone standing there, beside her.

Tall, halfway good-looking guy. Black collared shirt, brown hair with bangs, attractive stubble. Brown eyes, piercing like daggers. She nearly passed out onto him, but righted herself on her heels and smiled.

"Can I help you?" she asked, tucking her hair behind one ear.

"Rynne Parish?" the man replied. 'I need to talk to you."

He had to be thirty, at least. Eew. She looked him up and down. "Sorry, my to-do list is already pretty long," she said. "But if I get an opening, I'll let you know." She started to leave, but the bastard reached out and grabbed her arm. She tried to shake him off, but failed. The nerve. Someone was going to have to do something about this.

"We should go for a walk. _Let's go for a walk._"

Or maybe not. "Yeah, sure, whatever." _How drunk _am_ I?_ She simply sighed and allowed herself to be lead out of the club and into the crisp night air.

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"'S cold," Rynne noted, pulling her leopard print coat tighter around her body. The guy wasn't saying much; they usually didn't. She wondered for the thousandth time why the hell she was out here, but her mind – for the thousandth time – wandered away from that question. Now was not the time for logic, it said. Now was the time for casual banter. Or something. Say something. _Anything._

"I'd introduce myself," Rynne began, the chill sobering her up enough to converse properly, "but I think you're already a step ahead of me, there. Do you mind me asking how you know who I am?"

"Your act is famous," the man replied. "Though I didn't see you up there."

"Yeah," Rynne shrugged, "I work behind the scenes. Makeup and what not. Sorry to disappoint."

The man ignored this and looked at the road, which had lots of cars on it. They were going fast. Rynne wasn't watching the fast cars because they made her feel dizzy. She reminded herself to try and not drink whatever was handed to her, sometime, see how that went.

"So," she said, her breath coming out in a puff of vapor, "what's your name?"

"Gabriel Sylar," the man replied immediately. Nonchalantly.

"Oh," Rynne practically giggled. She was buzzed enough to giggle at something like that. "Yeah, no relation, right? Otherwise, I'm going to leave. Right now."

"Of course not," the guy – Gabriel – chuckled. "You think I'd run around declaring it if I was?"

"Just making sure," Rynne sighed. "You can never be too careful."

They were quiet for a while. Rynne had to wonder where they were going. They had been walking for quite a while now with seemingly no destination in mind. Rynne wondered if they were going back to his apartment. She would have to gracefully decline. Even if the guy _wasn't_ a brain-snatching serial killer, he wasn't her type. Too old. Not that that had stopped her in the past, but there was something weird about him that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"Where are we headed?" she asked, finally, wondering if he simply needed reminding that they were actually going somewhere.

"Nowhere in particular," Gabriel replied. "You looked like you needed to get out. You were sweating, you know; makeup must be pretty exhausting."

"Guys never understand," Rynne joked, looking away. She hated talking about her job. She'd learned a long time ago that it got awkward when you informed someone that you could spontaneously light things on fire. She'd grown up with it; she kept forgetting that it wasn't something that was exactly commonplace. Got you a lot of money from drunk people, though.

"Bullshit," said Gabriel. "You don't do makeup."

Rynne stopped and looked up at him. "Yes," she said slowly, "I do. And even if I didn't, it's none of your business."

"Oh, it's every bit my business," Gabriel replied, his eyes illuminated in the light of a streetlamp, sending him up the ladder from halfway handsome to three-quarters handsome at least. "You see, I've been looking for you. Here." He held out a candle. "Light it."

Rynne knew she was flushed, looking panicked. Damn it. "I don't have any matches," she said logically, trying to keep her composure. She'd never seen this guy before in her life. Had he been _spying_ on her working backstage? Half of her wanted to run. _All_ of her wanted to run.

'You and I both know that you don't have any use for matches." Gabriel was looking at her intently, and it made Rynne's heart stop, her brain turn dizzy. She felt a sudden impulse to tell him _everything_, to ignore any manner of secrecy in favor of confiding in this perceptive stranger beneath the lamp and the moon. And she didn't resist it.

The candle flickered to life. The flame shone on his face, and it made him look triumphant; it was an unnervingly manic expression on his angular face. Rynne smiled shyly and shrugged her shoulders beneath her big faux fur coat.

"Secret's out," she said shakily. "Don't go blabbing or everyone'll want one."

Gabriel took both of his hands out from under the candle, and it stayed exactly where it was. Rynne blinked, and stared. Gabriel was grinning a bit, now, and she quite wanted him to stop. This was weird enough without his smile taunting her from across their pool of light.

"You're not alone," he said. "I thought you should know that."

"I know," she breathed. "I know..."

He plucked the candle out of the air, and Rynne made the flame go out, little rings of smoke drifting off into the night. Gabriel stepped back into the shadows, and then he was gone, leaving Rynne dazed.

"I – come back!" she called, but, after a few more seconds, she had to accept the fact that she was alone. A few more seconds, and she realized that she had been wandering around out here in hooker boots and a leather skirt with a guy for ten minutes, at least. Couldn't look good. She shook her bangs out of her face, took a deep breath, and took off at a run for the club. She didn't feel like lighting anybody else on fire tonight.

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_Knock, knock, knock._

Daylight hurt Rynne's eyes these days. She knew exactly why, but she wasn't prepared to quit an easy job with great pay and benefits, no matter what the hours. And anyway, free beer. Yo.

Two more knocks. It wasn't like the Walkers to be late; Molly tended to badger them to get ready and leave when she knew that Rynne was coming to babysit. Molly loved Rynne. Rynne loved Molly. It all worked out.

Somebody answered, and Rynne was fully prepared to give Mr. Walker a good talking-to and, perhaps, a light punch on the shoulder. _Slow, much? Really. You're going to be late. Mrs. Walker'll throttle you._

But a policeman answered. He was pointing a gun at Rynne and looking angry. She withdrew her punch and blinked a few times.

"Hey," she said, stepping back a bit. "I'm … I'm just looking for the Walkers, man. Is everything okay?"

The policeman stared. "Do you own a television?" he asked skeptically, taking in the piercings, the hair, the outfit, the shoes.

"Can't say I do," Rynne replied, brushing her bangs to either side, trying to look presentable. "Why? Seriously, what's wrong? Was there a robbery or something?"

"One word for you," the man said, lowering his gun. "Sylar."

Rynne froze. She reached for the doorframe and held herself there. "What … I mean, what the hell? This isn't funny. The Walkers were normal people…. Why them? Why not anybody else?" She asked questions because she thought maybe the answers would explain something. Her brain flailed for some kind of hold on reality; nothing that the man said or did seemed believable, real.

"Sorry, kid," the man said. "How do you know the Walkers?"

"I babysit," she said, "for their daughter. Molly. Oh, God, Molly. Did he hurt her? Is she … is she?"

"Molly was fine when Officer Parkman found her," the policeman explained, choosing his words hesitantly. "It was a miracle he found her at _all_. She was hidden away; it's like they knew he was coming. But anyway. We took her to the station, kept her real safe, but the son of a bitch slipped past us! All of us!"

"Sylar."

"Yeah." The officer shook his head. "How he did it, I'll never know. Trained officials pursued him, he got shot at more times than I can count, and they all missed. Luckiest bastard I've ever seen in my life.

"Well, we kept her around for a few more days, but just three or four nights ago, we thought we heard something in her cell. We all went down there, but there was nobody in there, just that little girl crying for her parents. But do you know who else she was crying for? _Sylar._

"She was saying how he had told her that he could bring her mom and dad back to life if she went with him, spouting all kinds of bull like that. She was _crazy_, and she wanted to see that man like nothing I've ever seen. And, two nights ago today, she just vanished. Disappeared without a trace. We don't know how she did it – or how _he_ did it – but … I'm sorry, hon, the kid's gone."

"And he killed both of them?" Rynne asked quietly. "Mr. and Mrs. Walker … they're just…."

The guy nodded. "You okay, kid?"

"I'm fine." Rynne turned around and walked down the steps. As an afterthought, she glanced back over her shoulder. "You hear anything, let me know, okay? I'm in their phonebook. Rynne Parish."

And she clicked away, wondering what to do.

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She spent a week wondering when the truth was the most obvious thing in the world.

She had tried to avoid the inevitable conclusion, to dismiss it as one that was both unnerving and impossible. But every other plan she concocted, every other scheme that crossed her mind, was even more dangerous or implausible. At long last, she packed up her things and went to find the next bus to Texas.

After all, Sylar had been playing around quite a bit down there. If he was anywhere, it was Texas.

Rynne reached into the pocket of her black pleather skirt, but found nothing - at least, nothing that satisfied her needs at that particular moment. She checked her drawstring backpack next, and found it - a little school picture of a bright-eyed six year old girl in a wooden frame. There she was. The little runaway angel.

She put the picture back and moved with double the speed, her thin stiletto heels clicking on the pavement. If she wanted to catch the bus to Texas, she had to make it quick. Los Angeles could kiss her ass. If Molly wasn't here, nothing was keeping Rynne around. She could find new work, new haunts, and if this didn't work out, home was a bus fare away.

But Rynne wasn't going to come home until she had solid proof that there was no saving Molly. As long as there was hope, Rynne was going to try.

The bus stopped when Rynne waved her arms. She got on, took a seat in the front of the otherwise empty vehicle, and huddled down as the sidewalk drifted by.

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She took the first minute of the ride to procure a bottle of something or other from her backpack and down half of it. After all, it was going to be a long ride, and she was going to get bored otherwise. This way, she would be amused. By everything. That was how she rolled.

The next minute was spent staring at the driver in his mirror, trying to figure out where she knew him from.

"Hey," she said, finally, "you're that guy! That … that guy!" She giggled. "From the club, a week ago. Remember? 'You're not alone?'" She waved her hands around a bit, assuming that this would somehow jog his memory.

The driver smiled at her in the mirror. He looked like shit; his skin was paper-white, his eyes were sunken in. Rynne hoped he wasn't driving under the influence of anything. She liked being alive.

"I thought I'd be seeing you again," he said, his dagger eyes shadowed by his black baseball cap. "I'd assumed you'd be sober, but whatever."

Rynne ignored this. "Hey," she said, on a whim, sitting in the front where she could see the man drive. "You ever seen this girl? She was kidnapped only last week. Sylar, ironically enough. Some motherfucker, huh? Killed her parents with kitchen utensils."

The man glanced back at her. His eyes looked down at the picture, then up at her, and she felt little shocks run down her back. Beautiful eyes, piercing, like they could see straight through a person. "No, sorry," he said. "Can't help you."

"Didn't expect you to," Rynne replied, pulling her leopard print coat tighter around her. "Just trying, is all. I'm going down to Texas; that's where he's been hitting, lately. I figure, if the guy has her, I need to get her back."

"I see," Gabriel replied. "What makes you think you can take down an infamous serial killer? You plan to … light him on fire?"

"Yeah, that's pretty much the plan." Rynne leaned back in her seat, took a pull of her poison, and crossed her legs. She should have changed into jeans. It was cold on this bus.

"How did you know that girl?" the man asked, apparently for the sake of conversation.

"My parents knew her parents before they died," Rynne said. "I've been babysitting for her for as long as I can remember. Doesn't make as much as my other jobs, but it comes in handy, and I love her to death. I hope he hasn't done anything to her. I mean, if he _ha_s her, I'm just going to kill him. If he's even so much as _touched_ her, I'll torture him, and _then_ kill him. Mark my words."

"I doubt he could kill a child," the man mused, turning onto a side road. "Not even the hardest killer could take the life of something so innocent."

"Where the hell are we going?" Rynne couldn't help but inquire, looking out the window. "Some secret shortcut? I figured the interstate would be quicker--"

The driver slammed on the breaks, and Rynne was thrown through the glass screen and onto the steps where she had gotten on just five minutes before. She groaned dizzily, sitting up and rubbing the part of her head that had been cut just enough to get blood on her legs.

"Fuck," she grunted, looking up furiously. "What the _hell_ was that? You don't be careful, you'll have a fucking lawsuit on your hands! I -- what are you doing?"

The man abandoned his seat in favor of getting up and kneeling down beside Rynne. He grabbed her chin in his hand, and pressed his other hand over her eyes.

"I can't explain," he said. "I just ... have to."

And everything went black.

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_So, that's that, kids! Expect more soonish. R&R and I'll love you forever.  
_


	2. A Spark

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** So. Now I get to write Sylar being stark raving mad. XD Which really shouldn't be nearly as fun as it is. Anyway, Rynne isn't going to do any more stupid things, because she's no longer allowed to be drunk, which is a relief._

_But, really. She passes out more than a chick in a Victorian novel._

_**DISCLAIMER:** I'm going to introduce a new character or two, and mention a few more. None of them are mine. I have no qualms in killing them off, though. :D_

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**My Iron Lung**

** Chapter Two**  
_ A Spark_

Rynne woke up shivering. She pressed her hand to her head, and found that it still stung where she had hit it. So it hadn't been a dream. Well. That complicated things.

She sat up and rubbed at her legs absent-mindedly, trying to rid them of the goose bumps that had involuntarily sprung up all up and down her skin. Her boots were gone, which was the first thing she noticed about anything that was going on around her. The next thing she noticed was that she must not have been _mugged_, per se, because she was sitting on a surprisingly comfortable couch, the pillows pressing against her back, supporting her exhausted body.

So, then. What _had_ happened?

The room was dark, so she couldn't see much beyond a low glass table and a beat-up leather armchair about a yard from where she was resting. She was beneath a big window with Venetian blinds opened to reveal a damp, splattering rain outside in the (how long had she been out?) early evening sunset. She could hear a soft ticking sound somewhere nearby, like a clock or a wristwatch held up against the ear.

Beyond that, she could hear the softest hint of a voice. Two voices. A deep voice, and a small voice, speaking in turn.

Rynne swung her legs over the edge of the couch so that her feet rested on the floor, and let her head sort itself out. She could feel a dull throbbing sensation springing up just behind her eyes, making her vision even fuzzier than it had been a moment ago. Damn it. She gripped the arm of the couch 'till her knuckles turned white, and finally hoisted herself up onto her feet.

She promptly fell backwards again, her legs shaking.

"Hell," she muttered to herself. She'd felt worse than this before. Why couldn't she stand _up_? It was like something in her head wasn't working right anymore. Like she couldn't completely tell herself what to do.

She didn't need this forced upon her. She could have this sensation whenever she wanted to, if she could get cash and a ride to Avenue G. She forced herself up again, and stayed up this time. There, better already.

Rynne hobbled toward the place where she assumed the voices were coming from. They got louder as she walked, so she was eventually able to understand enough. Enough to get her good and confused.

"...brain," the deep voice was saying, "so she's going to be sick for a little while. I can't let her see you until then. But I promise, as soon as she's well, you'll be able to play as much as you want. I brought here just for you, you know?"

"Thank you," said the small voice, and Rynne had to catch herself on the wall to keep from collapsing. She knew that voice. She had said good night to the owner of that voice, fed the owner of that voice Pop-Tarts and ice cream, given the owner of that voice band-aids and stickers more times than she could remember. She hobbled faster.

"I think the three of us will get along _famously_," the man was saying, and there was a smile in his voice. "You said she has a special power? Just like your daddy di-- does?"

"Uh huh," said Molly. "She used to show it to me all the time. She could light a candle without doing anything with her hands or _anything_. Are you going to borrow her powers like you borrowed my daddy's?"

"We will see," said the man. "We will see."

"When is daddy going to come and pick me up?" Molly asked. "It's been ..." she paused ... "nine whole days. You said he would come back soon." The slightest hint of a pout. Rynne wondered why her legs wouldn't move properly. Was she going _backwards_ or something? She couldn't tell. It was so dark, so dark... Her eyes burned.

"Your daddy will come as soon as he can," the man said. "I don't know when. But I promise it'll all be okay, Molly. I'll take care of you."

"Good night," Molly sighed, and Rynne heard the click of a light going off.

"Sweet dreams," said the man, and then he was beside Rynne in the hall.

Rynne's legs shook, and she found that she could no longer keep herself standing. She nearly fell, but arms circled her waist and held her upright. She was pushed into a sweater that smelled like ashes, and had no choice but to lean into it, lest she collapse and lose consciousness completely. She shivered.

"You're still sick," the deep voice said, quietly and without feeling. "You shouldn't be up when you're like this."

"You," choked Rynne. "How long have you had her? What have you done to her? --"

His hand materialized in front of her mouth and pressed against her face, effectively silencing her and reducing her to half-hearted murmurs and wrigglings.

"I haven't touched her," he said. "Not even the hardest killer could take the life of something so innocent. Remember?"

Rynne's eyes opened wide, even though it burned terribly, and she wriggled even more. "Sylar," she gasped, when he removed his hand from her mouth to hold on to her properly. "Let me go. Let me go, I'll call the cops, I swear to God!"

"Drop the God bit," Sylar whispered. "Stick to what you know."

Rynne let out a little sob and stopped struggling, leaning back and closing her eyes. It was useless. She'd have stabbed him to bits with her stilettos, but they were gone. She'd have fought back with teeth, but her entire body was doing exactly the opposite of what she wanted it to. "Just do it," she said. "Just do it, and let her go. She's not ... special, not special like me. I won't fight, just do --"

"It's all right," Sylar murmured. "I've already done it." He stroked her bangs back from her forehead, ran his index finger along a thick ridge bursting out through her skin. "The bump will go away after a few weeks," he added, his chin on the top of her head, holding her in place while she whimpered in complete disoriented shock. "But for now ... you need to rest. _You want to rest._"

And Rynne knew nothing for long hours.

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_Blue. Endless blue._

_And a child. A child in the blue. His – her? – his. His hair was black, he was looking intently at her, smiling like an angel but his eyes were like the devil._

_Stick to what you know._

_She looked into those eyes, and they were like pools of liquid black darkness, extending forever into the distance. He was holding out his hands now, and she barely noticed herself take them in her own. And then she was somewhere else entirely, the child all but gone, standing on a table. This seemed more familiar. She thought, in a spasm of confusion, that she ought to start dancing, but then she saw Molly and dancing left her mind entirely._

_The girl was scraped everywhere, afraid, bleeding on the floor. She was fighting off policemen, of all the things she might have been doing. Demanding that her father be brought to her at once. The policemen were trying to explain to her, while parrying her childlike blows, that her father wasn't going to be able to come anymore._

"_Yes," she would insist. "Yes, he can. Sylar can make it so!" And she would lash out with her little fists, keeping them back, holding out for hope._

"_Sylar can't help you," the men were saying, and she was saying it, too. _Listen to them, Molly. Listen. He wants to hurt you. Listen!

"_Sylar can help me!" the child screamed. "I can do it, I know I can! I can do it this time! It's not just a dream, I can do it, I know I can! He told me I could!"_

_Anything he said to you is a lie. He promised you things to get you to come with him. He wants to hurt you. He hurt your mother and father, he'll hurt you, too. You have to stay where you are safe._

_But she is safe with him._

No. It's not possible. You don't know who you're talking about.

_She could save him if he would only let her._

_He wants to hurt you._

_He'll save you._

_Listen._

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Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Rynne opened her eyes because someone was stroking her forehead again. She looked up, and there he was, looking down at her. Before she could gather herself enough to react, he placed a cool washcloth over her eyes. She tentatively felt around her surroundings, and her hands brushed over blankets and pillows. Bed.

"Molly heard you," he said, quiet, emotionless. "You were having a bad dream. She was worried."

"Let me see her," Rynne whispered, pleading. "Please. What is it about me that she can't see someone she's known for … forever?"

Sylar shook his head. Infuriating calm. "Do you own a mirror?" he asked her. "Have you looked at yourself _once_ in the past five years?"

"What are you talking about?"

Sylar reached over to the bedside table, and picked up a hand-held mirror, the kind Rynne used to put her makeup on every day. He held it in front of her, removed the washcloth, and she looked at herself.

Her eyes. They were sunken in, shadowed, beady and glazed over from sleep, among other things. Her skin was ashen, her lips were nearly the same color as her ever-so-slightly flushed cheeks. And there was a huge scab, as thick as her ring finger, running across her face, just above her eyebrows. The skin above it was paler than the skin below it. She shuddered.

Sylar brushed his fingertips just below her eyes, and her lids fluttered out of instinct. She flinched away from him, and he took his hand away rather abruptly, crossing his arms and looking off towards the door.

"I look like shit," she said, finally, lying back down and closing her eyes. "And you didn't help." She opened her eyes again. "Why the _hell_ are you keeping me here? You're going to kill me, anyway. Just do it now."

Sylar looked back at her. "Do you have a death wish?" he asked, brushing his bangs out of his eyes and staring at her incredulously. "Would you rather I kill you than let you live? I don't _need_ you to be alive. It would probably be easier, in the long run, if I simply ended your life and left it at that. It's going to be a hassle for me to rehabilitate you enough for a memory wipe."

"A memory wipe," Rynne repeated. "You mean … you're going to erase my memory?" She laughed. "Fuck, that's brilliant. What makes you think you can do that?"

"Because I did it to you already," Sylar shrugged. "Can you remember what happened on the bus?"

"I blacked out," Rynne said immediately and confidently. "I … I …." She trailed off. "I didn't black out, did I," she finished quietly, sitting up slowly, her mind reeling. This guy … this guy was a basket case. If he hadn't been sitting between her and the door, she would have made a break for it. Well … maybe she wouldn't have. She would have to run through the kitchen to make it outside. She knew what this man could do with forks.

"I performed," Sylar said, sounding oddly pleased with himself, "an impromptu surgery in the aisle." He smiled for the first time since Rynne had realized who he was, and it looked decidedly different than it had under the streetlamp. It simultaneously brought life to his face and made him look completely and totally manic. Rynne unconsciously drew back into the pillows.

"It was very uncomfortable for both of us," he continued, as though Rynne had done nothing. "You have the Haitian to thank for your sanity."

Rynne rubbed her eyes. "I don't know who the hell you're talking about," she said. "Just make me forget this … all of this. Let the two of us go. I'll take care of her."

"That's what I had in mind," Sylar said matter-of-factly. "But you are not nearly healthy enough to have your memory altered in such a catastrophic manner. Your purpose for me is to provide a proper caretaker for Molly. To do that, Rynne, you must be clean and healthy, and that means that I'm going to keep you around here until I am satisfied with your good state of mind."

"And then?" Rynne stared at him skeptically, disbelievingly. Mad. That's all he was. He was a madman.

"And then I shall wipe both your memories in the same instant," he said. "You will wake up in a new town, with new identities, new lives. She'll be enrolled in the public school, you'll have a job, and I'll make sure you're settled in. You will, most likely, never see me again."

Rynne shook her head. Humor him. "So you're going to set up a detox for me and make me a fit parent?" she asked. "And then I'm going to wake up in suburbia, with a perm and a law degree?"

"If you'd like," Sylar shrugged. "I could arrange that."

"Never mind," Rynne said. "I need to sleep."

"You can come out and eat something whenever you're feeling hungry," Sylar said, standing up. He was tall. "Molly is asleep. I made sure; that's the only reason I risked waking you. You like pasta, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do," Rynne grunted, "when my skull feels like it's in one piece."

"Rest assured that I took great pains to ensure that it is," Sylar said, standing in the doorframe. "Whenever you're ready." And he left.

Rynne rolled over and went to sleep. She couldn't keep her eyes open for another second.

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About twenty-one and a half hours later, Sylar got irritated.

Rynne woke up on the floor, being dragged by her ankles into the kitchen. This was not the least startling position in which to wake up, and she spent her first five seconds of full consciousness trying to figure out why the wall was sliding about like it was. Once she figured out that she was being pulled, she spent a few more seconds processing the fact that, when she looked up at her feet in the air above her, nothing was holding on to them.

She squeaked. It was the only thing her brain would allow her to do at that particular moment. She wanted to light something on fire, but she figured that, as she was indoors around multiple flammable objects, such action would not be wise. The fiery heat in her fingertips died away, and she waited to see just where she was headed.

As soon as she reached the kitchen table, she was jerked into a sitting position and landed firmly in a chair. Sylar was standing on the other side of the table, staring at her. She crossed her legs.

"I was asleep," she said.

"You've been asleep for days," Sylar snapped. "Eat."

And he shoved a bowl of pasta at her. It smelled like sauce and spices, and Rynne felt herself salivate, even though she knew perfectly well that she could no more accept food from this man than she could climb into the back seat of a 1978 Chevy with three men who looked dirtier than the sewer drain….

Well.

A fork drifted over to her and hovered by her plate, innocently, as though waiting for her to pick it up. When she did not oblige, the fork flew down into the pasta, swirled around in it until a mouthful had collected around the tines, and hovered in front of her mouth. She opened her lips just a bit, and it shot in, seizing opportunity, coating her taste buds with the best seasoning job she had ever tasted in her life.

"Where the hell did you learn to cook like this?" she asked around the silver kitchen utensil that was currently busy behind her teeth.

"It's much like making a watch," Sylar said. "You know what goes where; you only have to make it so."

"Mm," Rynne replied, swallowing in spite of her logic telling her that this was entirely the wrong thing to do. She took the fork out of the air and used it by herself, shoveling the stuff in, realizing with every bite how extremely hungry she was.

"I'm glad you like it," Sylar said. Rynne ignored him.

"More," she gasped, shoveling down the last bite. "Please." She wiped sauce from the corners of her mouth and looked up at him; he was eating noodles out of the pot with a ladle.

"No," he said simply. "You haven't eaten a proper meal in days. Just wait, in a few minutes you won't feel so hungry."

Rynne sighed and rubbed her eyes, purposefully keeping her fingers away from where she knew the scar was hiding, waiting to catch her unawares.

"Don't pick at it," Sylar said, as if sensing what was going through her head. "It's important that you let it heal properly. I'm sure," he added, "that it is obnoxious."

Rynne didn't comment. She looked back toward her bedroom; her stomach was starting to hurt. Maybe she shouldn't have eaten that. Shit.

"But," Sylar continued, "you are alive, and I think a scar is a proper price to pay. Don't you?"

"Going to bed," Rynne mumbled, pushing herself out of her chair with her hand on the table and making for her bedroom door. There were three clocks in the kitchen, one on each wall. They all said twelve thirty-seven. In the bloody a.m. Augh.

"Not after you've eaten," Sylar said matter-of-factly. "That's bad for you." And, in an instant, he had her arms behind her back, keeping her from going anywhere at all. He stopped talking and didn't show any signs of moving; Rynne relaxed. She knew that struggling wasn't going to work. She just had to bargain her way back to sleep … that was all there was to it….

"Please get off of me," Rynne said slowly. "I feel sick. I don't want it to get worse. And you don't want to wake Molly, do you?"

"You don't have to talk to me like I'm a madman," Sylar whispered. "I'm not mad. And you can't go to sleep because it's not good for you to lie down with a full stomach like this. You just need to sit up for a while, digest. I'd let you sit up in your room, but I know that if I leave you unattended in there for even a second, you'll drift off. It'll be much easier for you to stay awake out here."

"I'm going to go to my room," Rynne murmured, trying and failing to pull her arms away. "Or not. You, either way, are going to let go of me. This is inappropriate."

Sylar paused, then laughed. It was cold and humorless, just like Rynne would have guessed it would be, had she ever speculated on the matter. "It's a bit presumptuous to assume that every man in the world is going to fall all over your feet. Believe me," he sneered as Rynne continued to lean away, "you have nothing to worry about." He let go of her wrists, and she pulled them to her chest, rubbing them with her fingers. They were white bordered in red where he had been holding on to them. "You can watch television if you want to," he added. "Though I don't know what's on at this time of night. Do what you like, I'm going to go check on Molly. Stay out here. _You want to stay out here._"

The next thing Rynne knew, she was sitting on the couch. The television was on, and she was watching the news.

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"It appears," said the pretty newscaster, "that the infamous _Sylar_ has struck yet again in the Texas area. The victim's name has yet to be released, but the marks of Sylar's involvement are impossible to miss; the top of her skull seemingly sawed off with perfect precision, the contents removed. Sylar's uses for the brains of the victims are undisclosed, and the FBI appears to have very little to say on the subject. Family and close friends of the victim state that she had become very withdrawn in the weeks before the killing, and it is possible that she was fully aware of being followed.

"The FBI would like to take this opportunity to request that any viewers who feel they might have any information regarding Sylar please call the hotline displayed on the screen. A substantial reward is being offered for any evidence that assists in the successful capture of Sylar. He is responsible for at least nine murders and one kidnapping to date.

'And we'll be back right after this."

Rynne muted it and forced tears back inside. Sylar didn't appear to have any desire to hurt her at the time, so, why worry? Right? Right. That was all there was to it. Just don't worry. Everything would work itself out. It always did, with Rynne.

Or was this the time when it wouldn't? There was a first time for everything.

Well. The first time things hadn't gone Rynne's way was when her parents had gone to sleep with fevers and woken up with boils and chills. The second time was when she had shown up for babysitting, only to have her clients dead, their daughter gone, snatched out from under the noses of the FBI by the man who was now holding them both prisoner. And now she had been kidnapped, her skull sliced open in the middle of the aisle of a public bus and sewn back together again by an insane murderer, trapped in this apartment with no way to escape and ensure that she would make it down the stairwell alive.

Bad things came in threes. Perhaps that meant that no more bad things were coming. Or that there were three more to look forward to. Rynne liked the former. Yes. She would bank on that.

It had been half an hour. Fuck this. She laid down on her side, put her head on the arm of the couch, and closed her eyes. She was asleep in seconds.

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"I'm going out shopping."

Sylar smiled again, and it sent chills up and down Rynne's spine, because she knew exactly what he meant. He was holding a slip of paper in his hand. It had an address on it, and a name – Isaac Mendez – a name that she didn't recognize.

"You're disgusting," she said quietly.

"Be that as it may," Sylar said in a singsong tone. "He can paint the _future_. Think how handy _that_ will be!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rynne said, turning away, folding her arms on the table.

"Yes, you do," Sylar taunted. "Or, at least, you knew all about me a few nights ago. You knew _exactly_ what I do. How, may I ask? Who told you? There isn't a living soul that knows what I do."

"I guessed," Rynne said. "You took me, after all. And you killed Molly's father. He had … he was special. It didn't take much for me to figure it out."

"You're smart," said Sylar. He seemed to be in a particularly good mood; he had a twinkle in his eye. Rynne wondered if he always got like this before he went out and did … whatever he did. She didn't like to think about it.

"Coincidentally," said Rynne, "there's something even my smarts can't work out." She looked up and stared at Sylar's eyes; those big, brown, piercing eyes. "Why'd you kill him? If you can do what you need to do and keep the person alive, why take their life and have that on your conscience?"

"Conscience?" Sylar asked. "Must be some new philosophy. A new philosophy from the twentieth-century bitch." He grinned. He was wearing that black baseball cap and Rynne wanted to tear it off his head. "Quite frankly," he sighed, crossing the room and sitting down at the kitchen table across from his captive, "I didn't have the skill. I couldn't mend the skull properly back then, and anyway, I couldn't wipe memories yet. That skill took some … difficulty to acquire. I can't have my helpers blabbing about my methods, now, can I? _Everyone_ will want to try."

"Helpers," Rynne repeated dully. "That's how you think of it."

"I don't think of it much at all," Sylar said airily. "They're broken, and I fix them. It's like mending a watch. If the parts are out of place, you need to put them back right. I break myself so they can be made right again."

"I'm still broken," Rynne commented, and a little flame appeared on the tip of Sylar's hat. It was snuffed out in the next second, but by no will of Rynne's own; Sylar smiled and waved his hands in a flourish.

"I couldn't fix your brain after tampering with it like I did," he said with a shrug. "It would have killed you. I'll fix it before you leave with Molly, so you never have to feel abnormal again. If you plan to live in suburbia with a perm and a law degree, there'll be no room for abnormalities, now, will there?"

"Why the hell do you need to paint the future, anyway?" Rynne asked desperately, standing up, determined in that instant to stop another murder from joining the growing list. "What good is that going to do you?"

"_You never know,_" Sylar beamed, looking positively mad beneath the brim of his black baseball cap. "I might want to see where to go for dinner a week from now! I might want to see who's going to win the game so I can bet with confidence." He shrugged again, exaggerated movements solidifying Rynne's impression that he was completely intoxicated with the prospect of killing again.

"You're sick," she spat, spinning on her heel. "Leave, then. I'm going to go wake Molly. She's been asleep almost straight through the last few days." She smiled to herself so he couldn't see her; judging from past experiences, _that_ would keep him home.

"Fine," Sylar chirped. "You have a happy reunion together. I'm off."

"No, wait –!" Rynne shouted, but he was gone, and the door clicked shut behind him. Locked from the outside. How, she had no idea. Damn him.

"Rynne?" called a small voice, and Rynne forgot all that.

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_Reviews are like crack. Feed the addiction._


	3. Monotony

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Vaguely frustrated because this fic won't quit being mediocre and start being good. But whatever. I like it enough to try to finish it. After all, I need _something_ to keep me sane until 1.22.07. XD_

_I'm going to try to write some of the other Heroes; as in, the ones I haven't already killed off because I'm tired of them. XD; Am I a bad person?_

_**DISCLAIMER:** Rynne (and Lauren, I guess, threw her in for the heck of it) are mine. Nobody else. 'S a shame._

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**My Iron Lung**

**Chapter Three**  
Monotony

"Molly!" Rynne cried, running toward the child standing in the doorway. The girl's dirty blonde hair was brushed and straightened, and she had bangs, which was new. Her eyes were bright, and she looked healthy and happy. Satisfied after inspecting her for a few seconds, Rynne knelt down and pulled the girl into her arms, refusing to let go until the girl laughed and wriggled away.

"Why were you and Sylar fighting?" she asked, her eyes big and wide. "Is he going shopping? He always looks sick when he comes home from shopping. I've tried to tell him to stop because it is not good for him, but he must if he is to bring father back. I –"

"Molly, Molly, Molly," Rynne said over and over again, until the girl hushed and simply stared at her babysitter, holding on to one of Rynne's big hands with her two small ones. "Molly," the older girl said finally. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. But anything he's said about your father coming back is not true. Sometimes … sometimes people have to go away, and they cannot come back, no matter how much you want them to. That's just the way it is."

Molly smiled and shook her head. "No, Rynne," she said happily. "That's the lovely thing! Father told me about death, but Sylar told me that death isn't real. He said that if I wished for father to come back, I had to make it so. And even if it's too late for father, he said that he would take care of me."

Rynne sighed, unsure of what she could say that would make the girl understand without breaking her heart, shattering her world. "Molly," she said softly, "you must understand that not everything Sylar says is the truth. He –"

"That's what _they_ said!" Molly shouted, throwing Rynne's hand away from her. "Sylar is my best friend! He said that whatever I wanted, I could make it so! All I need is to learn … to learn … and he can teach me!" She made childish fists and planted them on her hips. "Sylar said that you would say this and that I was not to hate you for it, that I was to understand that you were wrong but you didn't know better. It's like when I hit my friends when I was younger. I didn't know better, and I did it."

"You're only just seven," Rynne said shortly. "Don't say 'when you were younger,' you still _are_ young, and he's telling you whatever he can to convince you that he knows what's best. Honey," she said, gently as she could, "_he_ is the one that doesn't know better. We must be careful not to make him angry, or we don't know what he may do –"

Molly stamped her foot. "You don't _see_!" she yelled. "Do you know what he said when he came for me the first time? He told me that he was not going to hurt me, that he only wanted to help me find my … my father…." She paused, and looked away, battling with herself. "Rynne," she said, finally, "can I tell you a secret?"

Rynne blinked. "Of course," she said. "Any time, Molly. You can trust me, you know that."

Molly let her hands fall from her hips, and she clasped them together. "I know what he did, Rynne," she said.

Rynne was silent. She didn't know what to say.

"He doesn't think I do," Molly said in a sudden whisper, "but I do. I always have, from the day it happened. But _I trust him_, and you should, too." She leaned forward and put her lips next to Rynne's ear, her voice getting quieter and quieter. "Do you know why?"

"Why?" Rynne was getting chills, and she couldn't explain what was causing them, only that something was different about Molly. She seemed older, more intelligent. She had been through a lot, obviously, but this intelligence … it was different. Less gained, more … given.

"_Because he believes in me,_" Molly breathed, before standing up straight again so her face was level with Rynne's. She smiled her angelic smile, the one Rynne had never been able to say no to. But this time was different. The girl was talking nonsense. Sylar had already gotten to her.

"Believes in you," Rynne repeated. Molly nodded. "Believes in what, exactly?"

"He believes that I am the end to his sadness," Molly said. "Or, at least, that I am going to bring it to him. Why did you think he went to find the painter? He wants to know when the end to his sadness will come." She smiled a bit less, memories coming back to her. "He was told by my father that he had a spark," she continued, "before he … he did what he did. My father had hidden me away, but I heard everything." She looked down. "My father could see people's hearts," she said softly. "That's why he trusted you, because you have a good heart. He could see Sylar's heart, and it was in pain, but there was a spark." She looked at Rynne again. "That made Sylar angry." She crossed arms over her stomach and bit her lip. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You don't have to," Rynne whispered. "Soon, Sylar will let us forget. Can you last until then?"

Molly nodded, but looked troubled. Rynne figured she knew why, but she asked anyway.

"I don't think I want to forget, Rynne," Molly whispered.

Rynne was stunned. "Why on earth not?" she asked. "Our life will be so much better when we wake up, Molly! All of this will be behind us…."

"I like who I am," Molly said unhappily. "I like you who you are. And I like … I like Sylar. A new life means he won't be in it. I think I'll miss him."

Rynne decided not to point out the obvious flaws in logic of that statement. "Well, dear," she said, "I'm not well, just yet, so you won't have to worry about it for quite some time." Rynne tapped the girl's nose with one finger, and smiled. "What do you say," she suggested, "that we make some food? You must be hungry after all this sleeping you've been doing."

"We have to talk about it some time," Molly muttered, but her belly chose that moment to let out an unholy grumble, which canceled out any arguments she might have had about not being hungry. Rynne scooped her up and carried her into the kitchen to see what they could find.

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Molly was right. When Sylar came back an hour or so later, he looked extremely ill.

His face was white as paper, and the skin beneath his eyes looked almost transparent. He was carrying a plastic bag on one arm, which he threw aside with a careless air. He walked wordlessly past Rynne and Molly with hardly a backward glance, and went into the bathroom. Rynne debated for a moment over whether or not she should go and inspect the bag, but she decided that she'd rather not know; apparently, so did Molly. The two of them sat quietly, avoiding each other's eyes, Molly swinging her legs against the bottom of her chair, Rynne sitting motionless, unsure of what on earth she was supposed to do.

Sylar emerged again almost immediately, having changed into something that wasn't stained, the color already coming back into his face. He smiled a thin-lipped smile at the two, and went to the bag he had dumped on the kitchen counter.

"Look what I got," he said, sounding more alive than he looked. "Paint." He pulled some very nice acrylic paints out of the bag, along with some paper and a palette. "I'm going to be in my room for a little while," he added. "Please don't bother me." He took his new possessions with him and promptly locked the door.

"He's always like this after he goes out," Molly said quietly. "It's best not to be near him for a while. He gets angry." She bared her teeth and made claws with her fingers, a mockery of child's play. She smiled desperately, clinging to her youthful fortitude, avoiding thoughts of experiences that she had done nothing to deserve.

Rynne smiled a bit as well, silently amazed that the girl had gotten so used to this already. She supposed that the younger you were, the more adaptable you were. Molly was simply coping with the situation the best way she knew how – by getting accustomed to the dysfunction of it and learning to live.

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"Peter. You have to come out of there sometime."

The man in the bed made no reply whatsoever. His overgrown bangs were tangled in front of his face, and he looked like he hadn't slept in days. His lips were thin, his eyes sunken and glazed. A man in the deepest pit of depression.

Claire Bennet walked into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed closest to him. "Peter," she said again. "Wasting away in here isn't going to bring her back."

Peter looked at the pretty girl, and shook his head. "I just need time," he said quietly, hoarsely, as though he hadn't used his voice in a week, which he hadn't. "I can't go through the motions. That just doesn't work … with me."

"Look," Claire sighed. "Everybody's been worried about you."

"Let them worry," Peter said belligerently, in childish defiance. "I could care less."

Claire bit her lip. "Is this what she would have wanted?" she asked softly, clasping her hands together in her lap. "I don't think so."

Peter sat up, which was obviously not an improvement, judging from the look in his eyes. "What _Simone_ would have wanted," he snapped, "I have no idea. I didn't even know her. You have no idea what it's like to find out that you've been living a lie."

"You haven't been living a lie, Peter," Claire said, tentatively putting her hand on his shoulder, scrambling for something, anything to say that would make him stop looking like a man who had lost his way. "You don't know what you're saying. She loved you, I _know_ she did!"

"I don't think she would have died for _me_," he said bitterly. "But she obviously felt the need to die for _somebody_."

"She and Isaac were close," Claire said carefully. "Of course they were. I mean. You don't just break off a two-year relationship like _that_." She snapped her fingers. "But the fact that she was willing to … to die for a friend … doesn't mean that she didn't care for you, and it _doesn't_ mean that you can throw the rest of your life away when she would have been in here pullin' you out by the ears."

"We've been over what she would have done," Peter said with a tone of finality, falling back on the pillows again. "Get out of here. I'm tired."

"Peter." Claire put her hand back in her lap and looked at the door, checking for the shadow of somebody listening in. She saw nothing. "Peter, is there anything I can do? Please, tell me – anything. I can't stand to see you like this. I … none of us can. Anything…."

"Yeah, sure," Peter growled. "Prove to me that the one woman I've ever loved gave a shit about me, and I'll come out skipping."

Claire opened her mouth, closed it, stood up, and walked briskly out of the room.

"God _damn_ it," the ex-cheerleader hissed as soon as she got into the living room. "I'm going to slap him soon. In there on his throne all high and mighty, actin' like he's the only one that deserves to be miserable, like we all have to dote on him, I swear…." She scowled at the hallway and sat down hard on the couch, crossing her legs and pouting a bit. Only a bit.

"Give him a break," a polished man said from across the room, where he was sitting, reading a book about genetics. "That's my little brother you're talking about."

"_You_ talk to him, then," a bigger man in an armchair said snappishly. "He'll listen to _you_."

"Are you kidding?" Nathan actually put down his book for that one, looking skeptical. "What can I say? Why don't you just go in and read his mind, that'll solve _all_ our problems."

Matt made to stand up, but the handsome, dark-skinned man next to him planted a hand on his shoulder, keeping him down – if not through brute physical strength, then psychologically. "Relax," Mohinder said. "You're being ridiculous. He's going to be unhappy for quite some time, and the lot of us arguing about it isn't going to make him feel any better." The man paused, brushing his thick black curls out of his eyes. "DL," he asked, finally, "where's Niki?"

"She's making eggs," the tall man replied promptly (as though he had answered this particular question quite a few times) from his position leaning on the doorframe. "For Micah. He's got a cough. He didn't want to get out of bed all day, so he's hungry at eleven o'clock at night. He didn't get that from me."

"If he stays up all night working on his computer as often as he does, it's bound to catch up with him," smiled a pretty brunette, about twenty, with her legs tucked up under her. She leaned back against the wall and wiggled her toes into the carpet. "I can go check on him, if you want," she added, glancing at the stairs with feral green eyes, obviously rather eager to get out of the testosterone-charged battleground the living room was threatening to become.

"You're okay, Lauren," DL grinned. "He's supposed to be asleep right now, anyway, though I doubt he is. You can help Niki, if you want."

"Cool," Lauren chirped rather quickly, glancing shyly at Nathan across the room before getting up and dashing into the kitchen, where the vague sounds of sizzling could be heard.

"Newbie," a roundish Asian man commented from his seat near the television. His face had smile lines all over it, but they were fading, as though they hadn't been used in a while. His friend, sitting beside him, appeared to be dozing off, completely oblivious to anything that was going on.

"She's been here a week and she's already scared of half of us," Mohinder sighed, resting his head on his hand, his elbow on the arm of his chair. "Are we that frightening? That we would scare a girl that could turn into … into a grizzly bear, if she wanted to?"

"No comment," said Claire with an impish grin. "No, listen, guys, I'm going to go to bed. It's late, and I still need to call my dad and tell him my skull is in one piece. See you in the morning, okay?"

"Good night, Claire," Mohinder said, waving lightly after her as she half-skipped toward the stairs, her long blonde hair flouncing all about around her shoulders. She was still perky, even after all that had happened to her over the past few months. Insanity.

Then again, the Indian man thought to himself, wasn't this all insanity? Two months ago, he would have laughed if someone would have come up to him and informed him that, in just seven or eight weeks, he would be living in the loft of a dead painter with a mimic, an anthrometamorphic, a phaser, a woman with super strength, a technopath, and a girl who could spontaneously regenerate, with random visits from a telepath and a man who could fly. The whole thing was beyond him. He had decided long ago to simply go with it; after all, that seemed like the other Heroes' sentiments. Just roll with the punches and see where they wound up. It had worked in the past, and Mohinder hoped to God that it would work again.

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Claire leaned over the sink, wincing in momentary discomfort. She had been brushing her teeth so hard that she had made her gum bleed. Again. Damn it all.

She watched as the minute stream of blood flowed very quickly for half a second, then bubbled and abruptly ceased as the wound closed up. She swished water around in her mouth to get rid of the salty taste, and kept resolutely brushing, a shade more carefully this time around.

Quite frankly, Claire felt like kicking something. She had, in fact, kicked the cabinet under the sink the moment she entered the bathroom, but that had only resulted in her halfway breaking her toenail, which had been less than satisfying.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She rinsed her mouth again, this time to get rid of the toothpaste, and splashed some water on her face. She was flushed under all her makeup, and she _never_ got flushed. She couldn't believe she was this frustrated about her inability to get one angry guy out of bed.

She shouldn't have such high expectations of herself. After all, convincing Peter that nothing had been hidden from him in his cruelly-terminated relationship would be difficult; not only had Simone and Isaac been hanging out together in the empty apartment, but Simone had been thrown up against the wall when Peter and Mohinder got home, her limbs all akimbo, an expression of frantic worry still on her face. Claire knew exactly what had happened, and, in her naivety, she had told them. Sylar had done the same thing to her when she had jumped in to save Jackie; just swatted her away like a bothersome insect.

She could have said that Simone must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, that Sylar hadn't wanted any witnesses, but no; she had _had_ to go on about how Simone must have been _so_ brave, trying to save Isaac's life. Peter was already upset – understatement of the century – about seeing his girlfriend all sprawled out in her own blood. He didn't need the added blow of 'yeah, she must have been trying to save her ex-boyfriend.'

And then Claire had the nerve to come prancing into Peter's private sorrow, trying to cheer him up with smiles and assurances to combat worries that she had helped create in the first place. Who did she think she _was_? The hero that was going to come in on a white horse and deliver him from his pain?

Claire already owed him. She owed him big time. She could still remember that night; when she had bumped into him in the hall, exchanged smiles, unaware that he had arrived to save her life with absolutely no idea whether or not he would walk away with his _own_ life. When they had sat together in a jail cell and he had told her that she wasn't alone, that she wasn't the only one. He'd been a mentor to her over these long months, putting up with her questions and fears when he had a ready supply of his own to deal with. He was the one who had convinced her father to let her leave high school and stay with him and the others, telling him that she would be perfectly safe with others watching over her. He was the one who had convinced her that she _wasn't_ a freak, that she could use her powers for good, to protect others the way he had protected her.

And now, look what she'd done. She'd gotten them all into another mess. Peter hadn't come out of his room for any more than five minutes at a time for the past four days, and it had added mountains of stress to the already ample burdens of all the other residents. All because of her big mouth. Stupid.

She pulled her hair back rather more roughly than she had originally intended, and blinked her eyes rapidly, wondering why on earth she was crying. _She_ wasn't the one that should be crying. She should be in, begging Peter for forgiveness. Or trying to figure out some way that she could help the others, instead of being an unnecessary burden, something that needed nurturing and protecting. Or doing _something_ productive instead of standing in the middle of the bathroom in her pajamas, feeling sorry for herself.

Sighing in a manner which proved she hadn't quite lost her girly streak yet, she opened the door and wandered to her bedroom, pushing all thoughts from her mind so she didn't sound like a mess when she talked to her father. He had to be assured that everything was okay, and he wouldn't believe her for a second if he heard the tears that were behind her eyes.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sylar barely left his room for the next five days. Rynne had to admit that she was getting worried – not for him, but for _her_. Every so often, she would hear some manic noise of frustration coming from behind his door, and she would automatically go find Molly and make sure she was doing all right. He could say whatever he wanted about not harming something so innocent; she didn't trust a word that came out of his mouth.

Rynne had never thought that, in a situation such as this, she could get bored. But she did. She wandered listlessly around the house, making food when she was hungry, drinking something – anything – when she found herself desperately missing her old habits. Sylar didn't keep any liquor around the house, of course, and she couldn't leave to get some. She had tried. The door was locked.

The monotonous routine settled down upon Rynne's shoulders, and she felt her fear slowly ebbing away to be replaced with a vague nagging that appeared whenever Sylar screamed some unintelligible string of profanities that could be heard all around the house and probably outside as well, or when Molly smiled and said something about how she couldn't wait to see her mother and father again. Perhaps, Rynne mused, her mind was learning to cope like Molly's had; it was adjusting. It was unhealthy, she was sure, but she didn't mind. Her only worry was that it wouldn't adjust back when she finally got out.

Getting out, itself, became less of a priority and more of an eventual goal. Priorities became feeding Molly, feeding herself, staying healthy and, bit by bit, realizing that she could walk across the room without her legs threatening to give out, or that she could pick something up and be completely confident that she wasn't going to drop it before she could put it down again.

After the five days, which felt like a week, a month – Rynne lost count of everything but the time, of which she was constantly reminded – Sylar emerged. He had, apparently, failed to clean himself or change his clothes for the duration; he looked completely emaciated and feverish. His shirt was splashed with every color Rynne could think of and then some. He stared at Rynne and Molly for long moments, then staggered into the bathroom, where he remained for at least an hour. The shower was running the entire time, and, every once and a while, Rynne thought she could hear vomiting.

She tried going into his room, but the door was resolutely locked.

"Rynne." Molly was sitting on the couch, looking terribly frightened. "Rynne, is Sylar going to be okay?" She bit her lip, and wrung her hands. "I don't want him to be sick. He gets so awfully sick." She looked at Rynne with big, liquid eyes. "Promise he won't get sick?"

"There's not much I can do," Rynne began, tentatively, but Molly looked so incredibly upset that, for the billionth time at least, Rynne caved. "I'll make him something to eat," she said. "What does he like?"

"He doesn't eat much," Molly replied. "He makes me sandwiches."

'Sounds good," Rynne sighed, completely unable to believe what she was doing. She got up, went into the kitchen, got bread, butter, and meat, and assembled them in the proper order. When Sylar came into the kitchen, she held the plate out to him with a little half-smile.

"Molly thought you might like this," she said hesitantly. "You look like hell, man. Sit down."

She didn't exactly get the reaction she was going for.

Sylar's eyes got wide; wider than Molly's had ever been. He slowly backed away, shaking his head ever so slightly. "No … no,' he said, his voice tremulous and faint. "No, I'm not hungry. Not … not hungry."

"Bullshit," Rynne said, seeing Molly's immense concern painted all over her face from across the room. "You've been holed up without anything to eat for ages. Unless you've been eating paint." She proffered the sandwich again. "Eat."

Sylar wavered for a moment, then turned and sprinted for his room. He flung open the door, stared at Rynne once more in profound horror, and slammed it shut behind him.

Rynne and Molly stayed exactly where they were for some time; it seemed like forever before Molly finally moved ever so slightly, shifting position so she could rub her foot, which was falling asleep. Rynne slowly put down the plate, straightened her coat (which she had been wearing almost constantly; Sylar liked to keep it cold, and she knew better than to argue), and crossed to Sylar's door.

"Get away," he said the second she knocked. "I don't have to explain myself and I'm not going to."

"You can't stay in there forever," Rynne replied, looking at Molly, who was close to tears for worry for her 'friend.' "I don't give a damn what's driving you off the deep end. Come out and eat the fucking sandwich. Act like a normal person for five seconds. Molly doesn't want you to waste away and die."

No response came from the room.

Rynne paused, then laughed bitterly, fuming. "My God," she said to nobody in particular, "why the hell am I _doing_ this? I'm trying to convince a _murderer_ to come _out_ of his room, _eat_ so he doesn't _die_, and behave like a _normal person_. Honestly, Sylar, I'm afraid you're rubbing off on me! Maybe I should go out and start eating people's cerebrums, as well, might come in _fucking_ handy—"

The door swung open, and Sylar was staring down at her. Rynne stopped talking very quickly, and looked up at him, more than a little concerned. There were little splashes of blue paint on his cheek. His eyes were purple underneath; he must not have slept at all since he got home. His hands were shaking.

"Move," he said quietly, and he shut the door behind him before Rynne could see inside. He walked briskly past her, muttering something unintelligible, sat down at the table, and took a voracious bite out of the sandwich.

"See?" Molly said in pure, unabashed delight, hopping up and running over to Sylar. "That wasn't hard!" She was beaming, but Rynne didn't feel terribly satisfied. She felt like she had made a pact with the devil. Which, at that particular moment, didn't seem like all that bad an idea. Might get her out of this place.

She leaned on the door, arms wrapped around her stomach, and watched the two of them interact. Molly was smiling and saying something; Sylar was eating and listening to her at the same time. He reached down and tapped her nose with his finger, and she laughed. He looked for all the world like a father talking to his enthusiastic daughter; the façade would have been complete had he not been so terribly frail, with his skin seeming as though it had been stretched over a skeleton, his wrist bones jutting out, his cheekbones pronounced and deeply shadowed. But his eyes were still brilliant, and, when he glanced over at Rynne, she got the feeling that they were boring into her brain, that they could read everything she was thinking like an open book.

Which, of course, was ridiculous. If he'd found somebody that could read minds, she was sure she would have heard about it before now. Of course.

Why did she even care? She wasn't thinking anything he wasn't allowed to know about. Just the thought of him having killed someone else, having someone else's power drilling into her through those dagger eyes, was making her stomach twinge like it was. More blood on his hands that Molly didn't need to know about, didn't need to deal with. More questions that needed answers.

She put her hands in her pockets, and walked away from the troubling scene. She needed to figure out how to get into Sylar's room without burning the door down.


End file.
